The Brake Before the Curve

The world tilts forward—

not loudly, not with thunder,

but with a hush,

like the air deciding

to take its own breath back.

The road narrows,

a silver ribbon pulled tighter,

lined with trees whose shadows

lean in, listening.

My hands rest heavy on the wheel,

knuckles pale,

as if they already know

there is no returning.

A single goose feather drifts across the windshield—

absurd, delicate,

a reminder that flight

always begins with falling.

The horizon reshapes itself:

a bend sharper than memory,

a drop steeper than reason.

I taste copper in the air,

metal and earth,

a warning sign written

in every rust-red leaf

clinging to the guardrail.

Behind me,

the echoes of yesterday shrink,

small as rearview ghosts.

Ahead,

a silence grows louder,

charged with something unnamed.

This is not the end,

but the moment before.

Not the fall,

but the breath the world takes

as it leans into gravity.

I hover at the edge—

brake beneath my foot,

heart at my throat,

the sky tipped forward

like a glass about to spill.

One more second of stillness—

then the tilt becomes descent.

And I know:

whatever waits below,

the only road is through